


Chronometry

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First it's twenty years, then it's ten years and twenty years in time, it's now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chronometry

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/withthunder/3229.html#cutid1), September 8th 2010

_Twenty years in time, Eames will be living in Morocco and he will have regrets, he will have long-forgotten hopes. He won't be having any dreams, because that's what he has lived for; dreams, has lived solely for dreams, has lived_ in _dreams, has lived_ a dream _\-- and twenty years in time, he will be able to leave dreaming behind him, will be able to close his eyes and not be afraid of reality._

  
~*~*~

  
Seeing Arthur smile, really smile -- for him, _because_ of him -- for the first time is something liberating and tangible -- and Eames knows that everything he's done so far; every satisfying heist, every successful forge, every other smile he has received in his life, mean nothing compared to Arthur's smile. The way Arthur's lips curve into a smile so wide it's actually a full-blown grin, the way Arthur's dimples appear and his eyes shrink into half-moons, eyebrows complying, makes Eames feel pure joy. It makes him feel glorious and giddy and amazed; makes him feel like he's flying up above, yet grounded like he has never been before; makes him feel like he could do anything, that he could be anything. It makes him feel impervious, impenetrable and victorious.

It makes him feel oddly vulnerable, makes him feel like he's been cut open and laid bare.

(Years later, Eames can name the feel. It's happiness. Arthur's smile makes him happy.)

He knows he should be scared, knows he should close up and keep his distance, he knows all this-- and yet, as Arthur takes a step forward, he takes one step forward; as Arthur lifts his hand to touch the place where neck meets cheek, he does the same; as Arthur's smile trails away, replaced by smouldering gaze and lip-licking, he mirrors it all without meaning to; and as Arthur's lips touch his, gently, harder, _devouring_ , he reciprocates with enthusiasm -- and he knows he should do what he does the best: he should run.

He doesn't.

(Years later, Eames still knows he should have run. He never did.)

  
~*~*~

  
 _Twenty years in time, Eames will be able to smile again, freely, unexpectedly, face-splittingly. He will be able smile, happily, as the circle has finally closed; he will be able to smile, from the bottom of his very existence, for he knows the time has finally arrived. Twenty years in time, Eames will be taking the step to the unknown, smiling, smiling, smiling._

  
~*~*~

  
He can hear the music kicking in, can hear the notes getting stronger, and an old, ageless voice singing in French and he thinks, _we're almost there, almost_. The projections are fighting dirty and shooting blind, and from the corner of his eye he sees Arthur fending, doing the very best he's able with his bleeding, bullet-grazed arm; dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, dodge, kick, legs-underneath-kick, kick-kick-kick, and he's moving to take care of yet another projection. Eames is counting seconds, less than five left, doing the countdown in his head as he fights and fights and fights---

And suddenly there's shooting again, behind them, around them, and Eames turns his head to look at Arthur; it's the last few seconds, Yusuf waiting for them on the first level, about to perform his own job; the time is suddenly in slow motion, and it's all a huge haze as his heart thumps painfully, the bitter taste of adrenaline bursting on his tongue and he can't move, he can't move fast enough, why can't he -- he can't --

"Darling, no!" He screams, definitely panicking for that short moment, and it's too late, it's all too late: Arthur's lying on the ground, eyes wide open, unseeing, and a perfectly deadly hole on his forehead---

And it's a whirlwind, it's a spin, it's gulping air and it's a spin again, and it's the sickening feel of Yusuf's jugular between the wall and Eames' forearm as he says calmly, "You'll get me in Limbo. Now."

  
~*~

  
Of course it's not him; it's Cobb, always Cobb. Cobb who saves the day, Cobb who saves the world; Cobb who couldn't save his own wife, always struggling with the guilt and despair and forgiveness; Cobb who gives Eames a hard look and snaps his fingers for the harder sedatives. It's Cobb who hooks himself up and says, "Ariadne, three minutes. Not a second less, not a second over," and goes slack.

(Years later, Eames will be wondering about how it is possible for three minutes to feel like hours, waiting and hoping and being bloody _afraid_ for not knowing.)

Eames paces, feels like punching something, sits down next to Arthur's too-still body and runs his thumb along the curve of Arthur's expressive eyebrow; jumps up again and keeps on pacing. He knows the three minutes are up and feels Ariadne's hand on his arm, stilling him with a steady pressure. They both stare at Cobb and Arthur, eyes flicking from one dreaming body to another. Yusuf does something, something that Ariadne told him to do, and Cobb's eyes open -- a beat later, Arthur's does as well.

  
~*~

  
It's only after, when they get back to their hotel room, that Arthur breaks down. The way he gives himself up, completely, to Eames, is astonishing and off-kilter and something Eames has been craving without knowing it himself. Long gone is the playful struggle and flirtatious laugh and salacious smiles; instead it's Arthur clinging to Eames like he's the lifeline, like he's the only one that really matters; it's air-deprived, desperate kisses and keening noises with wanton bodies; it's Arthur seeking and keeping eye contact, letting Eames drown into the brown depths; it's letting Eames have him, all of him. It's Eames loving and Arthur loving back.

(Years later, Eames knows it was the only time, the last time. Years later, Eames realises it was a goodbye.)

  
~*~*~

  
 _Twenty years in time, Eames will be sitting on a comfortable lounging chair, under the sun, under the blue sky, older and wiser and mellower; he'll be seeing the ripples in the ocean and hearing the seagulls screeching and he'll close his eyes and see his whole life flashing in front of him._

  
~*~*~

  
"Hello?" Voice hoarse with interrupted sleep.

Silence. Deep breath, "It's Cobb."

"Cobb. How may I be of assistance?" Intrigued and tired.

"Have you heard already?"

"Heard what?"

"Oh." Pause. "It's Ariadne. She—she's dead, Eames."

More silence. Nausea. Serious, unwavering tone, "What happened to her?"

"She never woke up. I tried, Arthur tried, we did all we—but it wasn't enough." Voice, words, personality detached.

Hard thinking. Tentative inquiry, "How's the family?"

A sigh. Another sigh. "He's broken. I don't think he quite comprehends what's happened. You know how he can be."

Unfunny chuckle, disbelief. "Correction; I used to know how he was. I haven't seen him in ten years, Dom."

"I know." Quietly, regretfully.

Longer silence. Hesitantly, "How… How's the girl?"

"She's confused. Angry. Sad. Pretty much like mine was when Mal…" Barely hidden anguish.

Quickly, "Yes. Yes, I can remember."

"Yeah." Sadness.

Silent inhale, loud exhale, "Do you need me for anything?"

"He needs a friend." Sharp, immediate.

Agreement, "Yes, he does. Be one for him."

"Eames." A warning, disappointment.

Disbelieving, firmly, "I'm not doing this."

"Eames—" Exclamation.

Interruption, "I'm sorry for your loss, Cobb. I know you loved her."

"You loved her as well."

"It was long time ago."

A statement, "You still love him."

"And look where it got me." The truth.

"Will you come to the funeral?"

"I can't." Absolute.

"Eames, listen—"

Cutting off, "I'll be sure to send my condolences."

"Will you just—"

Determent, "I have to go, Cobb. Thank you for calling me; I only hope it would have been under better circumstances."

"Eames! Eames—"

"Goodbye, Cobb." The end.

  
~*~*~

  
 _Ten years in time, Eames will be able to forgive, will be able to let go. He will be able put things behind and let them be. Ten years in time, Eames will be even._

  
~*~*~

  
Cobb greets him at the door, looking older than time itself; hair all grey and thin, wrinkles around his mouth and cheeks, but the smile he gives Eames is nothing short of grateful and dare Eames say, _brilliant_. Cobb takes Eames' hand in his and shakes powerfully, like he used to, years ago.

He's invited inside, and he's struck by the feel of home, of belonging in the air -- it's unmistakeable, the warmth and sense of security created by soft lights and earthly colours combined with slightly thick air, and it does feel like a very comfortable house to live in. He doesn't even realize he's looking for Arthur's handprint in the decoration, until he sees a picture of himself and Arthur, his hand around Arthur's shoulder -- taken back when they weren't _them_ , and it seems only reasonable that Arthur would choose such photo to put on display now that they weren't _them_ anymore. Now that they haven't been _them_ in ages.

The picture of two of them looking younger and somehow happier, is standing next to another photo; a family photo. Arthur is holding a small bundle wrapped in pink blanket and Ariadne stands next to Arthur, looking radiant and vibrant and so damn alive; shining with life and proudness and love -- and it makes Eames sick, the idea of Ariadne, small and spicy and _huge_ as a human and an architect, not being with them anymore, of being ripped away from Arthur and Cobb and the small pink bundle--

Who's currently standing on the side, watching at his every move with the intelligent eyes of an eight year old, dark brown and shining with what has to be sorrow and realisation of the way life works; the way life can be unfair and the way death can be unjust. Eames can't take his eyes away from her; she's absolutely stunning in her beauty, slim and slender, like her parents; long and dark hair decorating her face and shoulders; and she looks like she can easily hold her own, looks like she's very bright and sceptic, just like her parents.

Eames is thinking about saying something, maybe introducing himself, because they've never met before. Eames has been careful to keep his distance, not wanting to cause any unwanted tension for the family, or for himself. Before he has the chance to say anything, two teenagers, a boy and a girl come to stand next to her and whisper in her ears and lead her away.

It hits him; Cobb's kids, and it's surreal how the time flies by.

Shaking his head, he turns to look at Cobb behind him. "She's doing better, now," he says, voice devoid of any cheer.

"That's good," Eames says and nods approvingly. He looks around, trying to decipher where to go, where to go to--

"He never said anything, did he?" Cobb asks, squinting eyes creating deep crow's feet on his temples.

 _About what_ , Eames wants to ask, but doesn't. Instead, he says, "No."

"Right. That's him," Cobb complies and continues. "When I got to him, when I found him, there were dozens of pictures of you. Of all of us, but mostly you. Painted, drawn -- some were even made out of clay. You," Cobb says, "It's always been you."

Eames thinks about Arthur closing off and running away and seeking comfort from somewhere else; thinks about Arthur finding his life somewhere else; thinks about Arthur choosing someone else.

Eames says nothing.

(Years later, Eames knows it's always been him, just like Arthur's always been for him.)

  
~*~

  
He finds Arthur on the back yard, sitting on the wooden bench, surrounded by colourful flowers shining too brightly in the darkening night. Keeping his distance, his gaze roams in the scenery in front of him and meticulously avoids the one person he'd rather look at. Too long into the pressing silence he says, "It's nice here."

Arthur flinches, he's sure of it, and there's only more silence, and then, "It wasn't about you," Arthur says quietly. "It wasn't because of..."

And Eames shakes his head and thinks how completely unfair it is that after all these years Arthur still isn't capable of saying them as _them_ instead of them.

"Right." Eames says, understanding and unwilling to accept. "Right," he says again and stares at Arthur, in a way he hasn't before. Blatantly, accusing, grasping at the last straw -- and it shouldn't surprise him that Arthur never looks up, that he could never look up _to_ Eames, could never show Eames anything real; all just a huge fucking facade and Eames is so full of it, he's so sick of it and he has to swallow down a bile; has to swallow down his unwanted disappointment, and he stands up, eyes still riveted at Arthur's wildly curling locks, hiding everything Eames would want to see -- everything he would need to see.

"It was good seeing you," he says, unhappily congratulating himself of his steady, pseudo-flippant voice, and then Arthur is lifting his head, higher and higher and--- stopping around Eames' chest level, like the strip of skin showing is the most fascinating thing. Eames, if he'd close his eyes and would let memories carry him in another reality, he'd still feel Arthur's lips gliding on that skin; could feel Arthur's nimble fingers tracing the lines of his collarbones; the long legs wrapped around his own -- and Eames makes sure he keeps his gaze zeroed on the tip of Arthur's nose, and doesn't let himself remember.

Arthur nods, like an agreement, like an unconscious motion, and Eames swallows again. Despite the overwhelming nausea he's fighting, his traitorous hands are itching to touch Arthur's hair, to smoothen the strands into some semblance of an order; craving to settle themselves around Arthur's ever-young face and to lift his head, to make a connection. Instead he says, "Take care of yourself, darling."

And Arthur nods again, long lashes fluttering; covering, hiding, and Eames takes one last look at Arthur, drinks him in like the death-thirsty man in the desert; every little detail branding themselves in his mind, flaming and alive and it hurts, it burns -- and it's over.

Eames turns and walks away.

(Years later, Eames knows he could never really walk away; could never leave such a huge part of himself behind.)

  
~*~*~

  
 _Ten years in time, Eames will be alright. Ten years in time, everything in his world will be alright._

  
~*~*~

  
It's another decade and Eames sits along the beach, bottle of water melting under the sun of Tanger. Deep, sun-kissed laugh lines etched into the corners of his eyes, short-cropped hair greying on his temples, he lets himself be at ease. Too many years full of running from and to; too many years of dreaming and hoping; too many years of disappointing and deceiving; and way too many years of slipping out of control, of giving up instead of giving in -- and it has taken him this long to realise, to finally _see_ and to finally accept things for what they are.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deep; the salt of the ocean tickling his nose, and he smiles a small, intimate smile, enjoying his peace and quiet and---

"I guess it shouldn't surprise me how hard you are to find," a familiar, long-missed voice says behind him.

Eames can feel his smile widening at that, and replies, "Well, you know me. I never do things the easy way."

There's only a grunt of agreement and shuffling in the sand, and then, "This looks nice. You like it here?"

"Eloquent, as always, darling," he says as an answer.

He's positive he can hear a chuckle. "Yeah, that's me. Arthur the eloquent."

"Don't be so hard on yourself; your eloquence and tactfulness have always been one of your better traits," Eames says and squints one eye open to peer at his companion.

Arthur has sat down, long legs straighten in front of him and elbows sunken in the sand, and his face, his gorgeous face with paleness and lines of decade-long worry smoothen beneath the warm shine, head tipped back in obvious rapture -- and it's like the time has rewinded itself back to where they left off. Eames knows things cannot be erased, cannot be forgotten or pushed away; they have a long journey of issues and bitterness and longing ahead of them, but he's more than ready to continue their tale.

He continues, "Yes. I like it here."

Arthur seems to takes this in, seems to think about it, and he says, "You think I would like it here as well?"

Eames thinks about his lonesome, spacious flat in the edge of the beach; thinks about his big, military-precise made bed; thinks about his quiet mornings and stillness around him; thinks about the long-abandoned poker chip in the book shelve -- thinks about Arthur's touch and smile and pout, and he thinks that he's ready. Thinks that they're both ready.

He reaches a hand out, traces Arthur's side with his callused and shamelessly wrinkling fingers and wraps his hand around Arthur's. It's as if Arthur was expecting it, and he just holds on back, just like that.

Eames tugs and Arthur sits up, opening his eyes and squinting against the sun. He's sure his smile is splitting, it has to be, because it hurts his cheeks, hurts his lips and temples, and he can't help it -- especially when Arthur smiles right back at him, looking like a small boy, just like he always does when he smiles. He swallows the lump of long-due happiness and says, "Yes. I think you would like it here, as well."

(Years later, Eames is happy.)

(Years later, Eames and Arthur are happy -- together.)

  
\- Fin


End file.
